


What Are You Going to Do?  Shoot Me?

by PapayaK



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Angst, Episode: s02e13 Dead Reckoning, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Team
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-20
Updated: 2017-10-29
Packaged: 2019-01-20 09:04:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12429516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PapayaK/pseuds/PapayaK
Summary: This is my take on what happened on the roof at the end of S2 E13, “Dead Reckoning”.  I hope you enjoy. - Papaya





	1. Chapter 1

**oO0Oo**  
**What Are You Going to Do?  Shoot Me?**  
 **oO0Oo**

_“So I see I’m not too late…”_

_“I should have known you’d show up here.  I told you to stay clear.”_

_“Which is how I knew you’d put yourself in a situation like this, Mr. Reese.”_

_“Stay where you are…”_

_Finch pauses…_

_“Here...  Find out what’s on that hard drive… and stop it.”_

_“Will you just let me-”_

_Reese pulls his weapon and points it at Finch._

_“What are you going to do?  Shoot me?”_

**oO0Oo  
oO0Oo**

It was over.

John had come up here to die.  He would not watch the clock count down, he wouldn’t need to.  It wouldn’t take long and then that would be it.  He would disappear.  Being familiar with Kara’s relentless efficiency, he doubted he would feel a thing.  And oddly, he was okay with that.

He had felt a certain sense of _peace_ when he had first stepped out onto the roof.  It was quiet.  He was finally alone.  He’d put Snow and Kara firmly behind him.  He’d told Finch that he needed him to stay away from the building.  Fusco and Carter… his heart lurched at the memory of the pain in Carter’s eyes as he’d turned away from her.  But it had been the right thing to do.  She would be better off without him. 

His enemies were gone.  His friends were firmly – _safely_ – away from him.  The sounds of the city were distant enough to be soothing.  It was dark.  It was cool.  It was a _relief_.  He really had nothing more to worry about.

_‘In the end, we’re all alone.  And no one is coming to save you.’_

Here he was, where he had always expected to be:  Alone at the end.  No one was in danger at the moment… or in need of saving. 

Except him.

He should have known it wouldn’t be that simple.

He should have known that Finch wouldn’t just let him go.  That somehow his employer would end up on this roof too.  He should have known it the moment he’d said the words, _“I need you to stay clear of the building.”_

He should have realized that all Finch would hear was: _“I need you.”_

But he’d been genuinely surprised - and dismayed - to hear Finch’s voice.

_“So I see I’m not too late…”_

He blamed his surprise on the fact that he’d had a few other things on his mind the last few hours.  He hadn’t slept since… he actually wasn’t sure just how long it had been.  He hadn’t slept last night or the night before unless you count a loss of consciousness... 

Also distracting him were his aches and pains.  He had more bruises than he cared to think about.  He was getting really annoyed by the persistent ache in his side that signaled a cracked rib courtesy of the Aryans in Rikers.  Had that beating really occurred less than forty-eight hours ago?  Normally he just ignored these things, but tonight… tonight he was going to die.  Such knowledge brought a certain clarity – a singular awareness.

He was tired.  He was in pain.  He was going to die.  But he still should have expected Finch – and found a way to prevent his intervention.

_“So, I see I’m not too late.”_

It made him a little angry, Finch’s statement.  _Of course_ he was too late!  The bomb vest was going to _explode_.  John had made his peace with that.  It would take a chunk of building with it, but the building had been evacuated.  No one would be hurt (except him).  And now Finch was here, ruining everything.  His sense of peace had evaporated.  Now someone _was_ in danger.  Now he had to save Finch.  _“I told you to stay clear!”_

His frustration quickly fading, he realized there was one bright spot.  At least Finch could take the hard drive.  He was confident Finch could fix whatever it was that Kara had broken.  “Here - find out what’s on the hard drive… and stop it.”

But of course Finch wouldn’t listen.  Why couldn’t Finch do the logical thing?  Take the hard drive and leave!  Why would he approach?! 

John did the only thing he could think of to keep Finch safe: he drew his weapon.

_“What are you going to do?  Shoot me?”_

Simple answer?  Yes!   
It almost made John want to laugh to hear Finch’s incredulity bordering on derision.  Was he really in doubt?  Did he really think John _wouldn’t_ shoot him if it was the only way to save his life? 

Because, apparently, unbelievably, it was!  He hoped merely the threat would be enough to force Harold to depart.  But if Harold wouldn’t listen, and wouldn’t leave, then John would do what he had to do to save Harold’s life:  He would shoot him.  A minor gunshot wound would be preferable to being blown up.  He wouldn’t do any real damage, or cause too much blood loss.  He would simply immobilize the man.  He’d gotten really good at that since he started working the Numbers. Then he’d have just enough time to carry him safely into the stairwell before retreating onto the furthest part of the roof.  Perhaps he’d even jump at the last second so the bomb would blow in midair…

He tried to explain: “This is my past catching up with me.  It doesn’t concern you.”  ( _I’m alone in this. I’m_ **supposed** _to be alone.)_

Aiming carefully, his finger tightened on the trigger.

But then Finch began to speak.  “But this moment does.  I’m not leaving you here, John.”

John froze at the words: ‘I’m not leaving you.’

_‘In the end, we’re all alone – and no one is coming to save you.’_

“I’m not leaving you, John. So can we please stop wasting time?” 

And suddenly he wasn’t alone anymore.

He slowly lowered his weapon as a sense of unreality nearly overwhelmed him.  Was he really not all alone?  Was it possible?  He had been so completely alone in the deepest, truest sense for so long, it had become part of his identity and he wore it like a shield.  Was it possible he’d been wrong and someone _would_ come to save him?  The thought of not being alone should have comforted – and it did.  But it also made him feel horribly vulnerable. 

He watched Finch limp closer as if in a dream.

He felt Finch opening his shirt and almost chuckled.  Of course Finch would carefully unbutton it instead of ripping it open.  It was a very nice shirt, after all.  With a good clean and press, and just the right amount of starch - it could be worn again... 

It was this minute gesture that finally made John realize: it was _just_ possible that they would _not_ die tonight.  Finch was unbuttoning the shirt because he believed it would be worn again.

Hope began to seep in.  John refused to trust it.

_“Have you ever defused a bomb vest before?”_   He asked. 

_“Can’t say I have, but I believe I grasp the basic principles.”_

_“Well, that’s encouraging.”_   He was feeling almost giddy and realized that he shouldn’t be.  Emotional upheaval, utter exhaustion, the pain of his injuries, and the threat of imminent death, not only for himself, but also for Finch, had thrown him entirely off balance.  He was in the early stages of shock, he realized, and fought to lock it down.

Meanwhile, Finch was prattling on and on about just how, exactly, they were going to explode. 

Somewhat distracted by the utter normalcy of Harold being Harold, he shook his head, _“Finch- !“_

_“I’m sorry, this is my process,”_ was the quiet apology, and with that, John simply watched as Finch worked frantically to save their lives.

Feeling slightly more clear of head, it occurred to John that at the very least - it wasn’t too late to save Finch.  If the bomb couldn’t be defused, John could still bolt.  If Finch couldn’t do it, he would simply turn at the last second and leap off the building, leaving Finch where he was, safe and alive.  But he had to know -

_“Can you do it?”_

_“I have built some of the most complex computer systems in existence.  I can certainly unlock a phone.”_

While John was glad to hear the confidence, he still wasn’t convinced.  There were less than two minutes left... 

“ _All phones have a universal unlock code based on their model and the unique ‘IMEI’ number. For this phone, it’s one of five combinations. The problem is: we only get three attempts before the phone permanently locks us out.”_

Three chances = five choices.  Not good odds.  But the sense of tranquility John had felt earlier was beginning to return.  Peace was soaking in more successfully than hope, because either way – Finch would live. 

**_No one_ else _would die tonight._**

Snow and Kara were no longer his problem.  Fusco and Carter were safe.  He was confident he could save Finch even if Finch couldn’t save him.  He realized that he really _had_ no more problems.  He felt a weight lift. 

Finch’s first attempt was unsuccessful.  Two chances - four choices.  Down to 50/50 odds.  But now, John found he was okay with that.  “Take it that one didn’t do it?”  He asked only to receive a glare in return.  “Sorry.”

But he wasn’t, really.

Not sorry at all.  Not for any of it.  He didn’t know if your life really flashed before your eyes in your last moments or not.  But he found himself taking a long view of things.  He thought about everything that had happened in his life to lead him right here – to this moment – standing on a roof in the middle of Manhattan in the middle of the night - with this man – with this _friend_.

Meanwhile, Finch made another attempt.  It failed.

Once chance left – three choices.  Their odds were dwindling rapidly.

He looked down at Finch – at the man to whom he owed so much.

Finch felt his gaze.  _“What?”_

John smiled a little.  _“Something you said once – about how sooner or later we’d both probably end up dead…”_

_“I prefer later.”_ Finch interrupted.  _“After all, I’m the one who got you into this in the first place.”_

‘Got me into this…’ John mused on the statement as he looked out at the lights of the city.  They were pretty from up here.  ‘Saved me, is more like it.’   
  
He told Finch, _“I’m pretty sure I’d be dead already if you hadn’t found me.”_

_“It’s hard to say,”_ came Finch’s distracted disagreement.

John’s gaze returned to him- focused on him.  Did Finch _really_ not know where he had been headed the night they’d met?  It was important to him that Finch understood just how much he was owed.  He wanted Finch to know that not only had he saved John’s life – Finch had given him a reason to live, and more than that – he’d given him the ability - and the _desire_ to once again _enjoy_ living. 

oOo

_“You’re in a good mood, Mr. Reese,” Finch had commented._

_“I am,” he had agreed, surprising Finch. “I woke up this morning and felt – it took me a while to put my finger on it – I felt happy...  Must be this job...”_

_John had turned to look at him, and Finch had responded, sounding surprisingly gratified, “Well, I’m glad.”_

oOo

_‘It’s hard to say…’_

John simply corrected, _“Not really.”_ But he poured all of his gratitude into that quiet statement.

Finch paused in his critical work and looked up at John, the emotion in his own eyes clearly visible. 

John returned the gaze and wanted desperately for this life to continue – for both of them.  He didn’t want to throw himself off a building, although he would if it was the only way to save Finch.  He didn’t want to die.  He wanted to go on saving people.  _He wanted to live._   With that intense desire in his voice, he spoke: _“Pick a winner, Harold.”_   

**oO0Oo**  
**TBC…**  
 **oO0Oo**


	2. Chapter 2

**oO0Oo**  
**What Are You Going to Do?  Shoot Me?  -  Part 2**  
 **oO0Oo**

 **oO0Oo**  
John wanted desperately for this life to continue – for both of them.  He didn’t want to throw himself off a building, although he would if it was the only way to save Finch.  He didn’t want to die.  He wanted to go on saving people.  He wanted to live.  With that intense desire in his voice, he spoke: “Pick a winner, Harold.”   
**oO0Oo**

_“Pick a winner.”_

Forty seconds left.

Not forgetting his backup plan, John calmly calculated how long it would take him to reach the edge and fall far enough to keep Finch safe, but not so far as to endanger civilians below.

He kept his eyes on his friend, and listened to the soft clicks as Finch entered, then deleted, then re-entered numbers.

_Pick a winner._

Twelve seconds left.  Twelve seconds of life remained.  His universe shrank until it contained only two human beings and a square of Manhattan rooftop.

Four, John decided.  When four seconds remained, he would push Finch to the ground and-

_“beep-beep”_

Finch’s motions suddenly changed and John realized that he had done it: He’d picked a winner.  He had unlocked the phone.  But he still had to stop the timer.

Nine seconds left.

John gathered his abused muscles, prepared to move, and began his own countdown – Eight – Seven –

Finch closed his eyes in relief.

He had done it.

John blinked.  The bomb was rendered inert.  He wasn’t going to die.  _They_ weren’t going to die.  He blinked again. 

He wasn’t alone.

His universe suddenly expanded.

A different bomb exploded.

Finch jumped and tore his gaze away from John’s.  He turned and walked toward the edge of the building.

John stood where he was.  He’d gone basically numb over the last few seconds as his focus had sharpened fiercely on the task of saving Finch.  Now, as his universe expanded, a crushing wave of pain, weakness, and utter exhaustion rolled over him.  He felt the giddiness returning, and knew he was going into shock.

He remembered telling Snow that going to the safe house would be pointless.  _“All that’s waiting for you is a black hood…”_   He wondered what Snow had been doing at the foot of the building.  He’d certainly had time to get farther.  Had he decided to seek out Kara instead?  Either way, he was absolutely certain that Mark Snow was dead.

And _he_ wasn’t. 

 **oO0Oo**  
**seconds earlier…**  
 **oO0Oo**

“Musta been a dud!” Fusco commented as the partners stared upward.

Then the bomb exploded – around the corner instead of on top of the building.  They ran toward the remnants of a vehicle, fully engulfed in flame.  There wasn’t much left.

They got as close as they could, but there was little they could make out.  Was that a body in the front seat?  Fusco suspected it would be a while before anyone could say for sure.  Then he caught sight of his partner’s face.  “That wasn’t him.”  He reassured her.

She shook her head, agreeing.  “He wouldn’t put people at risk like this purposefully… but if he was pushed-”

“By who?” Fusco asked dismissively.  “And the roof of the car blew out – not in.”  He gestured at the skeleton of burning metal.  “You can bet your last dollar that was Snow- not John.”

She still stared.  If he wasn’t dead, then where was he?  She was certain he’d expected to die when he’d turned his back on her.  She’d seen that look before.  Had he somehow been able to diffuse the vest?  It seemed unlikely, but…  She nodded absently.  “He’s alive.  I don’t know how he did it – Snow wore that thing for days and _he_ couldn’t get out of it.”  She glanced at her partner who was staring at the top of the building rather thoughtfully.  “He did it.”

“Glasses musta had something to do with it, don’t ya think?”  Fusco glanced at her before returning his gaze to the roof.  “Dollars to doughnuts they’re both up there.”

Carter considered.  That did seem the most likely explanation.

After a moment’s consideration, Fusco asked her, “So what’s he gonna need, do you think?” 

She looked at him quizzically.

“Next step is getting him off that building,” he explained.  “He can’t exactly just waltz out the front door… and even if he could – is he able?”

Now she frowned.  What was he getting at? 

The two detectives faced each other, ignoring the first responders who had rushed to the burning hulk just feet away from them.

He grimaced.  “Look – I know Tall, Dark and Stoic will just gut it out.  Push himself past his limits…  You know, better than anybody, what he’s been through this week…”  Fusco didn’t want to sound like he cared much, but… “I know he’s like some kind of deranged machine – unstoppable – can go no matter what’s wrong with him – but…”  He wouldn’t quite meet her eyes.  “What kinda shape d’you suppose he’s in?”

She stared at him for a full five seconds.  Why did Fusco’s softer side still surprise her?  Then she turned her thoughts to John.  And it hit her:  the week he’d just been through would send most men to the hospital – and here she was, expecting him to waltz out of there like he always did.  Stoic – like Fusco said - not showing one iota of what he was thinking or feeling… 

**oO0Oo**

John stood in disbelief.  Finch had saved him – yet again.  Maybe - whether he liked it or not – maybe he wasn’t alone.

The gun dangled loosely in his hand.  He’d forgotten he was still holding it.  He took a shaky step towards Finch.  “I guess Snow retired after all.”  He fought an urge to laugh.  He could feel the blood draining from his head.  The world started to spin.

Finch turned just in time to see all color suddenly drain from his friend’s features.

“John!”  He quickly returned, reaching him just in time to grab his arm as he dropped.  Finch went down with him, trying to ease his descent.

John sat, gasping, barely holding himself up, leaning on one arm.  His gun lay, discarded, next to his hand.

Finch could feel him tremble, a vibration just beneath the skin.  “John?”  He asked softly.

John was pale, shaking, sweating in spite of the cold.  Was there further injury Finch hadn’t been able to detect?

“S’fine.” The lightheadedness began to fade as John fought to control his breathing, “ _I’m_ fine...  Just… need a minute...”

Finch nodded, but not in agreement.  He showed no sign of moving.  “It’s been a difficult week.”

John looked at him, an eyebrow quirked at the considerable understatement, a smile threatened.  “Yeah,” he agreed, and willed his muscles to stop shaking.

The two men sat.  The sounds of first responders dealing with explosion below drifted in the air around them.

“Do you think Snow found Stanton?” Finch asked quietly.

John nodded.  “I do.”  He rubbed his free hand over his face.  “They were always quite a pair.”

Finch nodded, then turned his attention once more to his friend, asking gently, “What, by way of medical attention might be helpful to you at the moment?”  Then he watched carefully as John seemed to consider – to look inward.  Injuries were no strangers.  Finch decided he would trust John’s self-diagnosis – _if_ he would admit he needed help.

John was sorely tempted to insist he was fine.  It was his default, after all.  But somehow he knew Finch wouldn’t accept it, and under the circumstances, it did seem counterproductive. So he assessed his current condition, and admitted, “Honestly, I wouldn’t mind having my ribs wrapped.” He swallowed.  “And I’m probably concussed, but there’s not much you can do about that.” His hand rubbed the back of his neck.  “Otherwise: sleep, water, food… a couple aspirin… not necessarily in that order...”  He saw Finch assessing his response and finished with, “It’s been a difficult week… but I’ll be fine… in a couple days.”

Satisfied by what sounded like a fairly honest assessment, Finch nodded, thankful to hear it wasn’t anything more urgent.  He turned his thoughts toward the considerable difficulties involved in helping John off the roof and into a place of safety and comfort, if he was unable to do it under his own power.  “When _was_ the last time you slept?  Or ate?”  He hadn’t in Rikers.  He hadn’t in the company of Snow and Stanton.  And before that - Finch struggled to remember the previous number - Abby Monroe and Shane Coleman.  Had John found time to sleep then?  At the close of that case, he had been arrested, imprisoned and interrogated for days.  He’d been brutally beaten and then when he’d finally been released he’d been in a horrible car accident.  Following that, he’d been drugged, locked into this bomb vest that had been threatening his life, and forced into a string of actions that benefited their enemy.

But it was that vest that had all of John’s attention at the moment.  In thinking about his current status, he realized he could not ignore the fact that, though the timer might be inactive, he still wore enough deadly explosive to turn his body into nothing but a fine red mist.

He brought Harold’s focus back to the matter at hand.  “Actually, Finch, there _is_ something you could help me with.  Something I need before anything else.” The word ‘need’ came out a little more desperately than he’d intended.

Finch met his gaze inquisitively, noticing as well, that his friend’s tremors had increased once more.

“…Could you _help me get this_ **_off_**?”

**oO0Oo**

“So?  What kinda shape’s he in?” Fusco prompted.

Carter nodded sadly to herself.  “Rikers was bad.  Our interviews… He was in a bad place.  I could tell he wasn’t sleeping.  And then Donnelly…”

Fusco waited patiently. 

“Donnelly let the Aryans beat him – trying to get him to give away-“

“Oh, that’s just peachy.  Get him to show his secret ninja powers just to keep himself alive…  Nice guy, Donnelly.”

“They really did a number on him.  And John – just – let them.” She shrugged.  “I think they might’ve killed him if Elias hadn’t stepped in.”  Her voice got softer.  “Then when he got out… and Donnelly arrested us… the crash…”  She closed her eyes, still a bit traumatized herself, and unconsciously rolled the shoulder that was still aching.  “He was on the side that got hit and he turned at the last second – taking the brunt of it to protect me.”  She shook her head, eyes still closed.  “And then Stanton…”  Her voice trailed off as she considered John’s predicament, not just the physical implications of running around town with a bomb strapped to your chest, but also the emotional fallout:  Their shared past.  The constant threat of collateral damage.  The ache of being forced to help your enemy; Of being forced to hurt innocent people when you lived to protect them.  And, of course, he hadn’t slept then either… 

Fusco watched his partner spiral and realized just how much she cared for their mutual friend.  He pulled her back into the moment.  “Yeah, yeah, yeah… he’s had a tough week.”  He was glad to see her turn and look at him, a spark of anger in her eyes.  “So what are we gonna do?  He need a bus?  We gotta carry him outta there?  We do and we’re gonna raise some eyebrows, don’t ya think?”

Carter pursed her lips.  Of course they couldn’t – even if that _was_ what John needed, they couldn’t give it to him without attracting too much unwanted attention.  No – a lesser, more subtle approach was needed.  She thought for a moment.  “He might need some bandages… wrap his ribs if nothing else.  But I think… water – hot food –aspirin – a blanket - maybe an ice pack…”

Fusco’s sly grin twitched the side of his mouth.  “And some friends, eh?”

At that, she smiled and the two walked purposefully away from the scene of the explosion.  They’d be back as soon as they had gathered a few supplies.

**oO0Oo**   
**TBC…**   
**oO0Oo**

 


	3. Chapter 3

**oO0Oo**  
**What Are You Going to Do?  Shoot Me?  -  Part 3**  
 **oO0Oo**

 _oO0Oo_  
In thinking about his current status, he realized he could not ignore the fact that, though the timer might be inactive, he still wore enough deadly explosive to turn his body into nothing but a fine red mist.  
oO0Oo

_“Could you help me get this **off**?”_

Finch recognized the anguish in John’s voice and the fact that he was, once again, fighting to keep his breathing even.

“Yes, of course,” Finch murmured. He should have thought of it sooner.  He immediately moved to help John remove his coat and shirt.  With exposure to the elements, John’s tremble threatened to become a full blown shiver.  Finch tried to ignore his friend’s misery and began to carefully examine the wires and connections.

 “Finch?” John asked, fighting impatience, clenching and unclenching his fists.  It was all he could do not to start tearing at the thing.  He wanted it _gone_.  “Finch!”

But contrary to John’s desperation, Finch’s hands stilled and he slowly drew them away.  “I’m sorry, Mr. Reese,” he responded reluctantly, “I’m afraid we have a problem.”

John closed his eyes as if by doing so he could shut out what Finch was about to say.

Finch didn’t want to say it.  How much more could Mr. Reese take?  “The phone trigger is no longer an issue, but she set it up so that if I disconnect the wrong wire, it will detonate.  I’m afraid this is beyond my skill.  We’re going to have to call in some help.”  What Finch decided not to mention was the fact that to him, it did not appear that the vest could be removed without detonation.  Kara Stanton was a truly heinous person.

John opened his eyes and just looked at Finch.  Despair threatened.  Once again he _should have known_.  Snow had helped to train Kara in making these things and he’d worn his for days longer than John. 

If there had been a way to remove the vest safely, Snow would have found it. 

Kara had never intended to release her helpers. 

John realized that he needed to accept - once again - that he would not be leaving this rooftop. 

He nodded slowly, “Snow said there was no way to get them off – and he would know.”

Harold desperately tried to think of another option.  They needed the bomb squad.  But if they called those experts – they would certainly be imprisoned, and their work with the numbers would be stopped.  But if that was the only way to save John…  The bigger issue with that option, he knew, would be getting John to agree to sacrifice all those future numbers to save his own life.

John interrupted his thoughts with eerie accuracy, “Bomb squad’s pointless.  Kara knows their play book.  She will have booby-trapped it for them.”

Finch turned his thoughts in other directions.

Could he find someone else with enough expertise?  Such a search could take hours if not days.  If he found this expert, would he be able to buy their silence?  Could John stand to wait? 

Finch refused to accept what was becoming more and more apparent: there might be no viable source of help.   It was just possible that there was no way out of the vest.

By stopping the timer, he had only delayed the inevitable.

John, already accepting the situation, found himself simply wishing that his earlier sense of peace and acceptance would return.  But it didn’t matter.

Finch wasn’t about to give up hope.  “I will find someone…”

“Finch-”

“It may take some time, but, as you know I am quite accomplished at finding people…”

“Finch-”

“I will simply-“

_“Finch!”_

Harold looked at him, imploring, “We cannot simply give up.  We have to try…”

John sighed as deeply as his sore ribs would allow.  He began to explain patiently, “I was okay with moving among civilians as long as Kara still needed me.  I knew she would at least try to keep me alive as long as I was useful.  Now…” He shook his head, looking out once again at the lights of the city.  “We have no idea how stable this thing is.  In fact, by turning off the phone, we may have left it open to other signals…  I _cannot_ move among civilians knowing a random phone call could set it off.  It’ll kill everyone within fifty feet.”  His gaze focused once more on Finch, who would most certainly be within that fifty feet.  “ _And_ \- I can’t just wait here.  This building will only stay empty for another hour or so.  So unless you can pull out a name in the next few minutes…”

With that, John simply looked at Finch, waiting for him to accept the inevitable conclusion.

Finch stared back.  Pain was clear in his eyes.  How could he simply get up and walk away?  How could he leave John to die?!

John patiently waited for Finch to accept that it was over.  They were out of options. 

“You need to leave,” he told Finch as gently as he could. 

“What are you going to do?”  Finch asked quietly, already knowing the answer.

“I’m going to take off this vest.”  John answered simply.

“No.”  Finch whispered, shaking his head miserably _.  “_ You _can’t_ …  **_I_** _can’t.”_  

The two men sat silently for another minute. 

Finally John broke the silence.  “I meant what I said earlier.  It’s been fun-”

“John…”

“I owe you more than I can say.  What you gave me… it’s-”

Finch could not hear the words – couldn’t let John say them.  If John knew how much of his past had been affected or caused by Finch’s own actions – unintentionally, perhaps – but nonetheless… “You’ve given me as much _and more_ in return, John.” Finch interrupted.  “I never expected-”

John stopped him by putting a hand on his shoulder and smiling tiredly.  “Finch… it’s time to go...  Find a way to keep on saving them, Harold...  And if you need a reason… then do it for me.”

Then he dragged himself painfully to his feet, pulling Finch with him.

Finch just looked up at him for a long moment.  John returned the gaze.  Then finally, utterly defeated, Finch slowly turned and limped towards the stairwell.  John turned and moved towards the edge.

He paused and looked over his shoulder to watch Finch leave.  He needed to know when he was safe.  He saw Finch stop at the threshold, and shook his head sadly.  “ _Just go_ ,” he whispered too softly for Finch to hear.

But then he realized Finch had said something: “Coleman.”

John frowned, puzzled.

Turning to look at John with a desperate hope in his eyes, Finch repeated louder, “Coleman - Shane Coleman.”  He began to limp closer – hope and urgency in his movements.

John, overwhelmed and exhausted, shook his head vaguely.

“’Explosive ordinance disposal expert’ – Shane Coleman!”  Carter had told him what Coleman’s job had been, but Finch couldn’t recall, at the moment, if John had heard her say it.  “Coleman has the expertise, and he’ll understand our need to keep it quiet.” He exclaimed, already pulling out his phone and dialing.

As he did so, John asked cautiously, “He still in town?”

“No.” Finch admitted, listening, “But he’ll help-” and then he was interrupted by Coleman answering the phone.

John gingerly eased out of his coat once more and immediately began to shiver.  He held out his hand for the phone.

Finch finished explaining the situation to the young man and frowned at John, but he handed over the phone.

“Can I do this myself?”  John simply asked.  He listened to the response, frowning minutely as he did so.  Then he handed the phone back to Finch and said, “I’m sorry, Finch.” He shivered.  “I don’t want you here.”

“I know.”  Finch acknowledged simply, but continued, “But as I said before, I’m not leaving you.”  And he pretended not to see the tears gathering in his friend’s eyes as he got to work, following Coleman’s instructions.

John was surprised to see Finch pull a roll of small tools out of an inner pocket.

Seeing his expression, Finch, now excited with hope responded, “You didn’t think I’d come unprepared, did you?” 

John nearly smiled at that.  Then he sat on a convenient piece of rooftop machinery and let the man work. 

Guided by the voice in his ear, Finch worked for nearly an hour.  Carefully, he would describe the complicated tangle of wires.  Occasionally he would send a picture.  Then he would listen, ask for clarification, and then reach forward with a trembling hand to snip a single wire.  Over and over, the process was repeated.  Each time, both men held their breath and waited to die. 

Each wire cut, brought John closer to freedom.  Each wire increased the marvel in John’s heart at this man who sat and unnecessarily risked his life with each snip.  But at the same time: sitting, waiting, utterly helpless; these were not adjectives John particularly enjoyed.  Each moment of Finch risking everything to save him, tore another piece from his resolve. 

Finally, the moment came.  John felt it.  The last wire was cut, and the vest suddenly felt loose – as if it had taken on a life of its own but had finally given up.  John felt weak.   As much as he wanted to yank off the vest and throw it far away from them, he couldn’t force his arms to move.

Finch realized this and, his own hands shaking from stress, reached out to gently slide the monstrosity off John’s shoulders.  It crumpled on the stones behind him.  Both men stared at it.

Still thinking of innocent bystanders, John commented unnecessarily, “We still need to dispose of that.”

Finch smiled patiently.  “Yes.  That shouldn’t prove much of a problem now.” 

Finch’s phone beeped on the ground where he’d discarded it after Shane had disconnected.

When Finch only looked at it, his hands still trembling, John slowly reached to pick it up.  He fumbled it from weak fingers, frowned, picked it up once again, and answered. “We’re still here…”

Moments later, the door burst open and Carter and Fusco arrived.  Each carried bags.  Carter opened hers and pulled out blankets, a few chemical warmers, and a bottle of aspirin.  She handed a blanket to Finch and got to work wrapping John in the two others.  Ignoring his protests, she activated and placed the warmers inside against his skin.  He protested.  He felt like a child.  But not only did he not have the strength – or, if he was honest, the desire - to stop her, he was realizing that he also felt immediately more human.

As she worked, Fusco opened his bundle to reveal several boxes of still steaming Chinese take-out and a pack of water bottles. 

John accepted a water bottle with one hand, a few aspirin already in the other, thanks to Carter’s ministrations.

Sitting down next to him, she gently held an ice pack against the sizable lump on the back of John’s head, subtly putting an arm around him as she did so.

He let her.  And if she wasn’t mistaken, he leaned into her, unconsciously craving her warmth and support.

Fusco tossed a roll of bandage into his lap without a word.  John nodded his thanks.

Finch frowned at the box of take-out Fusco was holding out to him, silently asking, ‘Are you crazy?  This is hardly the time for a picnic!’

Fusco shrugged minutely and jerked his head slightly in John’s direction, still holding out the box expectantly.

Finally, Finch’s overtaxed mind grasped what they were doing:  Without this intervention, John would simply gut it out.  He’d force himself to his unsteady feet, and he’d follow them as long as it was physically possible… and a few feet farther, if previous experience had taught Finch anything.  But he didn’t need to put himself through that- _they_ didn’t need to put him through that.  If they took a few minutes to shore up the man’s depleted reserves, he’d be in a much better place moving forward.

Finch smiled slightly, nodded in gratitude, accepted the box from Fusco, and took up his chop sticks.

And with that, four friends sat down to a meal.  As ridiculous as it seemed, it was exactly what they- what _John_ needed.

Finch picked up an egg roll and commented, “Best in the city.”

Fusco responded through a mouthful of food, “You’re welcome.”

Carter smiled and handed John his favorite.

John held it in his hands, enjoying the warmth.  He looked around at each of the others, disbelief in his eyes. 

They each glanced contentedly back at him. 

He wanted to say something. 

He didn’t have to say anything. 

They already knew.

The first glow of the sunrise warmed the air around them.

 **oO0Oo**  
**The End**  
 **oO0Oo**

Thank-you so much for reading my story.  Please leave a review if you have time. - Papaya


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